And Laf is like, “He means it, mate, he’s well evil. He’d kill a bloke, no sweat at all.”
And Erik laughed really pleasant—yeah?—like some posh bloke on the telly.
* * *
You would not believe all the gear they had up there, yeah? We did E’s and A’s and M’s and C’s and fuck knows what else until the walls were wobbling like jelly—yeah?—and it was like Erik was talking into this blob of jelly from outside somewhere, down some tube or something.
“Have you heard of Dunner, Carl?” he goes. “Or Thor, some call him?”
And I’m like, “... er, no, don’t think so, mate ...”—right?—like I’m talking up this tube?
“Well, he used to be big around here,” goes Erik. “Thurston means Thor’s town for one thing. Did you know that? Come to that he’s got a whole day of the week named after him. Thursday means Thor’s day.”
“Yeah,” goes Laf, “and Wednesday’s named after his dad, right, Erik?”
“That’s right,” goes Erik. “Woden’s day.”
And I’m like, “... Yeah?” (Which if anyone else had come up with this shit I would just have laughed, know what I mean?)
“Dunner or Thor,” goes Erik, “is the god of thunder. And he’s a warrior god. His weapon is a big hammer which crushes anything it strikes. As I say, he used to be big around here. Your ancestors would have worshipped him. They would have sacrificed to him too, animals and even human beings. So you can see they took him very seriously indeed.”
And I’m like “So?” but I don’t say nothing.
“And now,” goes Erik, “here is another secret. But this one I am happy for you to tell who you like. Because it’s the government who wants it kept as a secret. It’s the politicians and the do-gooders. It’s them who don’t want anyone to know.”
Well the room was as big as a fucking football pitch now—right?—with that Erik talking over the p.a. in a big echoey voice like God or something.
“Do you think about the universe at all, Carl?”
“As in, like, the sun goes round the earth?” I go. “Stars and that?”
Erik does his nice TV laugh.
“That’s it, Carl, you’ve got it in one. Stars and that. But listen and I’ll tell you something. The whole of this universe of stars and space is just one tiny twig in an enormous tree and every second, every fraction of a second, it’s branching and dividing, making new worlds.”
I laughed. But—it was weird, yeah?—I could fucking see it. Only it didn’t look like a tree. More like millions of black worms in the dark that kept on splitting in two and splitting in two and splitting in two—yeah?—like viruses or something.
“There are millions of other earths, millions of other Englands, millions of other Thurston Fields estates,” he goes—and like I said, he’s like God or something, I couldn’t even see him with all the E’s and A’s and shit going round me, just hear his big echoey voice all round me.
“And we don’t come from this one,” he goes, “Laf and Gunnar and Roeg and I, we’re shifters, we come from another world. Anytime we want to we can go to another world too. So we can do what we want here. We can do whatever we want. No one is ever going to catch us.”
I heard him moving about somewhere out there, know what I mean, like he’s on a different planet?
“Look at these!” he goes.
Well I’m lying on the floor with my eyes shut and when I open my eyes, even though it’s only candles in there, it still feels, like, too bright, know what I mean? So it’s a job to see anything at all as such—yeah?—but I see he’s holding out a bag with pills in it, hundreds of dark little pills.
“These are seeds, these are Lok seeds. Every one of these will take us to another world. Think of that. We can travel between the branches of the tree like Dunner does, with his hammer in his hand.”
And then that Rogg speaks, that evil bastard with the greasy black hair, and he’s a Scotchman or a Geordie or something.
“Yeah,” he goes, “and you know what we’s looking for, mate? We’s looking for one of Dunner’s worlds. Know what I mean?”
I go, “Yeah?”
“He means a world where Dunner is still worshipped today,” goes Erik, “We know they exist because the seeds come from there and because of shifter stories. There are thousands like us, you see, Carl, thousands of warriors of Dunner moving between the worlds. And we tell each other stories. We swap news.”
Then that fat bloke talks: Gunnar. You know how some big fat blokes have these, like, really high little mild little voices? Which Gunnar was one of them, right? He had this gentle little voice—yeah?—really polite and high. I’ll tell you what, though, I reckon he could beat you to a fucking pulp. But he’d still talk to you like really kind and gentle while he was doing it—yeah?—in that small little gentle high voice.
And he’s like, “Do you want to know what it’s like in Dunner’s worlds, Carl?”
And I’m “Yeah” and he goes, “Tell him what it’s like, Erik, he probably doesn’t know!”
(Which I’ve got my eyes closed again—right?—and those black worms are splitting and wriggling and splitting all the time all round me. But those shifter geezers’ voices are far away, coming down like from like ten miles above me or something.)
“Of course,” goes Erik, “of course ...” and he’s drawing breath, like this is the good part coming up ...
“Does civilization mean anything to you Carl?” he asks, “Or democracy? Or human rights?”
“You what?” I go, not being funny or nothing, but I don’t know what the fuck he’s talking about.
But they all laugh like I’ve made a really good joke! So I feel well chuffed, don’t I?
“They don’t mean shit to me!” I go, like doing the joke again.
“Of course they don’t Carl,” goes Erik kindly, “and do you know why?”
“Because I don’t give a monkey’s,” I go, but they’re tired of the joke now and they don’t laugh no more.
“The reason civilization doesn’t mean anything to you, Carl,” Erik goes, is that civilization isn’t there for your benefit. You’re not part of civilization. Civilization is for the others out there across the wire. They don’t care what you think. They don’t care about what you can and can’t do. They give you a dreg estate to live in and a DeSCA department to look after you. All they ask in return is that you leave them alone with their civilization. Just keep out of the way, is all they ask, and let them get on with their civilization in peace.”
“Yeah?” I go.
“Carl don’t want to know all that, Erik mate,” goes fat Gunnar in his little kind voice. “He wants to know about Dunner’s worlds.”
“I was coming to that,” goes Erik and he, like, growls. He don’t like being interrupted.
“You see Carl, in Dunner’s worlds there is no civilization, no democracy, no human rights. And there’s no DeSCA either, no Special Category estates, no wire. A young chap like you doesn’t have to go to the deskies for money or a place to live. No. What you’d do in one of Dunner’s worlds is find yourself a lord. A warlord, I mean, a great warrior, not some-toffee-nosed do-gooder who sits on committees about social exclusion and goes to the opera. You’d go to a lord and, if you promised to fight his enemies for him, he’d look after you, he’d make sure you got everything you needed.”
“Yeah?” I go.
“And Carl, mate,” goes fat Gunnar, “that wouldn’t be like a deskie flat or nothing he’d give you. Don’t think that, mate. He’d have a big hall, with a big fire in the middle, and you’d live there with all your mates. And you’d drink all you wanted, mate, and eat all you wanted and get as pissed as you wanted and when it was time to sleep, well you’d just sleep there in the hall, with all your mates around you. So you wouldn’t never have to think about money or nothing, and you wouldn’t never have to be alone. How does that sound, my old mate?”
I laughed. “That sounds like fucking heaven mate.”
>
“Yeah, and you don’t need to work or nothing,” goes old skull-face Laf. “All you got to do is fight! It’s your job, like. You even get to kill people and that and there’s no police or nothing to stop you.”
Which I’m like “Great!”
“Fair enough it’s dangerous,” goes Laf. “You could get killed too, know what I mean?”
“So?” I go, laughing. “Who gives a shit? When you’re dead you’re fucking dead, right?”
“Well said!” goes Erik. “Spoken like a warrior! But actually it’s better than that, Carl my friend, it’s better than that. If you die fighting, Dunner will take you home to Valour-Hall, where all the brave warriors go, and then you’d live again. And then it’s feasting and fighting for ever and ever, until the Last Battle at the end of time.”
And Gunnar’s like, “So what do you say, then, Carl my old mate? Do you want to be a warrior?”
Well, of course I do, don’t I?
“Yeah!” I laugh.
“Well there’s a test you have to pass,” goes Erik, “a little test ...”
But one of them is putting this spliff into my hand—yeah?—and I don’t know what they put in it but next thing I’m down on my knees half-way through my mum’s front door, chucking up all over the fucking lino.
* * *
Well, the next few days—right?—I’m like, “Did I dream that or what?”
I even went down there to Progress House—yeah?—and no way could anyone have got in there, know what I mean? Steel plates and massive bloody locks.
Which I go, “Well, I must have dreamed it.”
But down the Locomotive when Shane and Derek and that go, “Where the fuck d’you go with that skull bloke?” I didn’t say nothing, know what I mean? Because—yeah?—I remembered that boffy geezer Erik go, like, “That’s not a threat it’s a promise.”
I didn’t feel like taking a chance.
But, like, a couple of weeks later I was just going down to the pub in the morning—right?—when this car pulls up. Which it’s only that dodgy old Mondeo and that fat geezer Gunnar driving it.
“Hop in, my old mate!” he goes, leaning back to open the back door.
So I get in the back and that evil Scotch bastard Rogg—yeah?—he’s there in the front with Gunnar and he passes me back a spliff and, like, we’re off.
Next thing we’re at the line and Gunnar is showing his ID to the cop.
And he’s like, “Alright mate? How you doing?” in his kind little voice.
“Not so bad,” the cop goes. Which he’s a bit surprised—yeah?—like he’s not used to people being nice to him and that. And he’s like, “Have a nice day!” as he lets us through the wire.
Which Rogg laughs and goes, “Anyone tell you yous can’t fake deskie ID cards, Carl? Well you can.”
And Gunnar’s like, “There isn’t nothing our Erik can’t figure out, Carl mate. He’s one in a million that geezer. He’s diamond, mate, he’s pure diamond.”
We go right across town—right?—to this posh area where I never been before. And Gunnar parks the car—yeah?—and we get out and it’s like there’s shops that don’t sell nothing but coloured fucking candles right? And shops that sell little toys made out of painted wood which any normal kid would smash in two seconds flat and they cost like a week’s money each. And all these rich bastards in fancy clothes and posh voices—yeah?—like la di da this and la di da that and “Oh really Jonathan, that’s ever so sweet of you!” and beautiful bitches in posh sexy clothes like TV stars. And you look at them and think, “Shit, I fancy you,” but you know if you tried anything they’d just laugh at you like you was an alien from space or something with tentacles and that, or eyes on fucking stalks.
And Gunnar goes, “Do you know this place, Carl mate?”
And I go, “No.”
And he goes, “It’s Clifton Village mate, where the rich people hang out.”
“The beautiful people,” goes Rogg with, like, an evil sneer.
Then Gunnar puts his arm across my shoulders—yeah?—like he’s my dad or something.
And he’s like, “How’s this place make you feel, my old mate?”
And I’m like “How would I fucking know?”
“Angry maybe?” goes Gunnar kindly. “Does it make you feel angry at all mate?”
And I’m, “Nah, I don’t give a shit,” like with a shrug and that.
And then I go, “Yeah, alright, angry then.”
“That’s the way, my old mate,” goes Gunnar, “That’s the way.”
Which he’s still got his arm round me like he’s my dad or my kind uncle.
“Now listen, Carl mate,” he goes, “how would you like it if you could do whatever you wanted here?”
And I’m like, “Eh? What d’you mean?”
“How would you like it, Carl,” goes Rogg, “if you could smash these shops and burn these cars and fuck these women and blow away any of these smug bastards you wanted?”
“Yes, how would you like that my old mate?” goes Gunnar.
“Well of course I’d like it,” I go, “but you’re having a laugh with me, aren’t you? You’re just winding me up.”
“No,” goes Rogg, “no wind-up, Carl. It’s what we’re planning to really do. And I’ll tell you the beauty of it. The beauty of it is we’ll have swallowed seeds, so when the police come along we can just laugh and let them lock us up, because we’ll know that in an hour or two we’ll be in a different world and they won’t ever be able to get us.”
And it’s like it finally dawns on me, yeah? It dawns on me for the first time. If you’re a shifter you can really do shit like that. That’s what it would mean to be a warrior of Dunner.
So a big smile spreads over my face—yeah?—and I’m like, “Sweet, man! Fucking sweet!”
“And you can be there,” goes Rogg. “You can be there with us if you want to, if you’re willing to take the test, like.”
And I’m going, “Yeah, no problem, mate, no sweat at all,” when this old geezer comes walking past and suddenly stops, like, and looks at me.
“Well, well,” he goes. “Carl Pendant isn’t it? What a nice surprise! Do you remember me? Cyril Burkitt? How are you doing Carl? It must be all of 15 years.”
And he, like, smiles at Rogg and Gunnar—yeah?—like any friend of Carl’s is a friend of his. (Which Rogg don’t say nothing, and Gunnar’s like “Alright, mate. How you doing?”)
And I’m like, “Oh alright, you know, mate” and that.
Which he’s only my old social worker I used to have when I was in care and that. Which they’re all wankers but I sort of liked the bloke. He didn’t never get funny with me or nothing—yeah?—like I remember one time when I’d fucked up as per bloody usual and he says to me “You just don’t get it do you Carl?” and I go “No I fucking don’t” and he laughs and he’s like “Well that makes two of us I’m afraid Carl.”
Anyway, old Cyril Burkitt looks at Rogg and Gunnar again and he’s like, “Well, I won’t keep you from your friends Carl. But I’ll tell you what, I’m retired now. If you fancy calling by for a chat sometime you’d be very welcome. I don’t see such a lot of people these days, you see, so I’m always glad of company. And I’ve often thought about you over the years and wondered how you were getting on.” And he gives me this little card—yeah?—with his address and that.
Well then I notice Rogg and Gunnar looking at each other with, like, a funny secret sort of look.
Which I’m like, “What?”
“A deskie, right?” goes Rogg.
And I’m like, “Yeah.”
Which they look at each other again—yeah?—and sort of not.
“Well that’s your test then, Carl mate,” goes Gunnar.
And I’m like, “What is?”
And Rogg goes, “Go to his house, Carl, and kill him.”
Well I thought, “This is a joke, yeah?” So I’m laughing and I’m like, “Oh, he’s not that bad, not for a deskie, know what I mean?�
�
And Gunnar goes, “No Carl mate, you don’t understand. That’s your test! See what I mean, mate? It’s what you’ve got to do to become a warrior. Are you with me, my old mate?”
“You’s got to make a sacrifice for Dunner,” goes Rogg.
Which, like, they’re just looking at me—yeah?—and waiting.
And I go, “Shit!”
And Gunnar goes, “Fair enough if you don’t want to do it, Carl mate. No hard feelings or nothing. But if you do want to be a warrior, well, that’s the test you’ve got to pass. Know what I mean?”
So I like swallow—yeah?—and I’m thinking, like, well, all deskies are the same really. Alright some of them act nice and that but it don’t mean nothing. Which anyway the stupid git, if he goes round giving out his address and that, some fucker’s going to get him—yeah?—and if it’s not me it’s going to be some bugger else. So it don’t make no difference really anyway.
So I laugh—yeah?—and I go, “Yeah, alright. I’ll do it.”
So Laf—right?—he takes me over in the car the next day to the place where Cyril Burkitt lives. (Which it’s like another part of town which I never heard of. Only I never really been nowhere much outside of the Fields as such, except down the Centre—yeah?—to clubs and that and once we went over to Weston on a school trip and Shane had six pints of lager and threw up all over the teacher.)
And he stops like a couple of streets away and he’s like, “Now it’s along there and then turn right and it’s number 23, right? So don’t get lost will you, Carl?’
Which I’m like, “Fuck off,” you know, like laughing and that to show I’m not worried or nothing.
So I start to open the door but he’s like, “Hang on a minute, Carl mate. You’ll need this, you prat!”
Then he gives me a gun as such and it’s like, “This is the trigger, mate, and this is the safety catch, and this is a silencer so there won’t be any loud bangs or nothing. And listen, mate, there’s ten bullets in there, so when he’s down, empty the lot into the bastard, know what I mean? Into his head and that, yeah?”
The Year's Best Science Fiction: Twentieth Annual Collection Page 56